


Peter Parker: Web Developer

by MissMoochy



Series: MissMoochy's Spideypool Bingo Oneshots [2]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man/Deadpool - Joe Kelly (Comics)
Genre: Anal Beads, Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Crochet, Don't Like Don't Read, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Knitting, M/M, POV Peter Parker, Peter Parker Acts Like a Spider, Ryan Reynolds Please Don't Read This, Spideypool Bingo 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:33:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25156291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMoochy/pseuds/MissMoochy
Summary: Spideypool Bingo Prompt: [Crochet]Peter has a sticky problem. His body has started generating his own webs. He decides to find a use for them and when Wade finds out, Peter is surprised by the merc's appreciation.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Series: MissMoochy's Spideypool Bingo Oneshots [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1813951
Comments: 45
Kudos: 561





	Peter Parker: Web Developer

**Author's Note:**

> A huge Spidey thank you to OneBrokeWitch for the beautiful artwork!

He’d been feeling sick for days. Plagued with stomach cramps, feeling hungry and tired. No matter how much he ate or slept, he still felt drained of energy. He knew that his body needed more food than a normal guy his size, because of his mutant biology. But this sickness was new.

Ever since Peter Parker had been bitten by a spider during a field trip, he’d experienced bodily changes that were unpredictable and, at times, terrifying. He’d developed super strength and agility and had experienced the epiphany that he had to use these powers to protect the citizens of Queens. So, he’d taken on the name Spider-Man and had been the city’s protector ever since. One of Peter’s proudest achievements was his web fluid. It had been a natural conclusion to give Spider-Man web powers, so he’d developed a strong, viscous fluid that was virtually indestructible, and had developed web slingers to use to direct the webs to where he needed to go. He could swing around the city on a razor-thin web, feeling the air whip around him as he sailed through the blue sky. There was no feeling quite like it.

But now, Peter didn’t feel like getting off the couch to nuke a bowl of soup, let alone perform acts of valour. He was just gonna lie here. Curl up on the couch, hands clamped around his belly as if his fingers could massage the clenching guts from the outside. Lie here and try not to die and wish he had insurance and --

He needed the toilet. **Now.**

Peter leapt up and ran headlong into the bathroom, yanking his jeans and boxers down and throwing himself on the bowl. He’d felt like he needed the toilet for about two days now, but whenever he tried to go, nothing happened. But now, something was stirring so…

Peter strained and felt something leave his body. But it hurt. It was, oh fuck, that didn’t feel right. It felt dry and it didn’t exit his body with ease, it was sticking, something was, it was heavy, what the hell is wrong with him?

The pain was shooting through him, his ass and his back, he fell off the toilet, smacking hard on the linoleum floor but something was underneath him, some small wad of fabric, something sticky --

Peter reached behind him and seized it. It couldn’t be. He stumbled to his feet and tripped on it.

* * *

It was a much calmer Peter Parker who paced around his bedroom forty-eight minutes later. His solemn expression and steady walking showed a quiet confidence. If it hadn’t been for the mass of white streaming out of the back of his jeans, he would have looked like his usual self. He caught sight of himself in the mirror and shivered in revulsion. He looked like he had a bridal train attached to his pants. But it wasn’t lace, or chiffon. It was spider silk. And it wasn’t attached to his jeans. It was coming out of his body.

He’d had his fair share of panicking. Screaming, crying, tugging on the silk and vomiting down the toilet. But his frenzied fear had worn itself out. It was a fire that fed on everything and when it had nothing left to burn, it withered to nothing. Now it was replaced with cool logic.

Panicking wouldn’t do any good. He had to keep a cool head and work out a way to fix this. It had to be some new quirk of his mutant biology, it stood to reason that a person with arachnid DNA would develop some spider tendencies. The problem was, how was he going to stop this? And what if somebody found out?

* * *

Peter spent the next hour and a half lying on his bed with his jeans around his ankles, carefully pulling the silk out of his ass. He found that when he used a steady hand-over-hand movement, like towing a rope, he was able to pull it out of him with minimal unpleasantness. It still felt alien and wrong, but at least, it didn’t hurt. At the end, he had a big wodge of sticky silk, white-grey and gleaming. He threw it at the ceiling and it stayed there like a giant booger.

* * *

Peter made a list of people to ask for help. Tony Stark was on the top of the list, Aunt May was at the bottom. Gradually, as he dwelled on it, he crossed more and more people off. He felt like Mr. Stark would be able to help him or at least direct him towards somebody else with scientific knowledge, but he couldn’t bring himself to dial the playboy genius’s number. Peter had a great deal of respect for Mr. Stark and he wasn’t sure he had the courage to say to this man: “Silk keeps coming out of my ass.”

So, he stayed indoors for a week. He called in sick to work, texted his friends with a similar story, something contagious so he didn’t have to worry about answering the door. Survived off the canned goods in his kitchen. And spent every day pulling slippery ropes of sticky silk out of his ass.

It got to the point where there were huge layers of silk covering his bedroom. He would dig it out of his body and flick it off his fingers, letting it sail through the air and find something to stick to.

This web fluid wasn’t as durable as Peter’s artificial blend. It could tear, although not easily. Peter found that he was able to cut through it when he put some force into it.

Peter did some research on spiders, but he was unable to find a solution to his problem. He typed in spider biology and scanned the results. It didn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know.

On the eight-day, Peter accidentally threw a skein of his silk in with his laundry. He realised this with horror as he peered through the window of his washing machine and saw something long and white-grey whipping in circles amongst his socks and underwear. He had to wait for the cycle to end before he could open the door. When he opened it and dragged the wet lump of silk out, he was relieved to see that it hadn’t ruined his clothes. And that the washing machine had washed the stickiness from his silk. It was now soft and smooth, like actual silk. Like something from a store.

* * *

On the ninth day, Peter started getting Google recommendations on sewing and fabric stores in Queens, due to his excessive use of the word ‘silk’ in his search history.

On the tenth day, Peter started getting crochet tutorial Youtube recommendations. He made an impulse buy on Amazon for crochet needles and a stitch counter. He used next day delivery due to a misplaced sense of urgency.

Day eleven: Crocheting was easier than he thought now that he had the right tools. The video was very clear, the lady doing it (a chubby, middle-aged woman with hair that looked like a dead cat had perched on her head) had a soothing voice. Peter would sit and watch the video, cross-legged on his bed, with nothing but the sound of her voice and the clicking of needles. The occasional woosh of the web fabric. He found it calming and it took his mind off his current troubles. He’d always been a fidgeter, but having this hobby to occupy his hands made him feel more grounded.

On the thirteenth night, Peter couldn’t bear it anymore. He went patrolling. He’d spent some time beforehand pulling silk out of himself so he wouldn’t have to worry about it getting in the way of his Spider-Man suit. He was able to forget his problems for a few hours, punching and kicking and webbing his way through the night until he felt tired and returned home.

Peter had done it. He’d finished the crochet project. He’d made a blanket. It had looked like the simplest thing to make on the lady’s channel and Peter had wanted to make something practical. He gathered up the silky blanket in his arms and thrust it in a bag. It was too big for his tiny bed but he could think of somebody to offload it on. Somebody who always responded to Peter’s gifts (nothing more interesting than a stick of bubblegum or the occasional taco) with genuine gratitude and enthusiasm.

* * *

He recognised Wade’s silhouette on the rooftop of an apartment block and scaled up the building, using his web slingers. He was still using his chemical blend (he was trying not to think about his _other_ webs) and he heaved himself over the roof, his backpack thumping on his shoulders. He called out a hello to Deadpool.

“Spidey, hi!” Wade said. Peter had bitten the bullet a few months ago and revealed his name to Wade. He knew it was the right thing to do, he’d known Wade’s identity for ages, but it had still been a sacrifice. Wade had seemed to appreciate it.

They exchanged pleasantries and grumbled a bit about some new anti-mutant politician who had been making the news. Wade spotted the straps on Peter’s shoulders and asked him why he had brought a bag. 

“Here,” Peter said and thrust the bag at Deadpool. The merc cocked his head inquisitively but accepted the plastic bag, opening it and peeking inside. “You shouldn’t have! Oh. What the fuck is it?”

“I made it.”

“Is this -- oh! Is this one of your webs?” Wade jostled the bag and the glossy fabric fell into his gloved hand. He tore his glove off, stuffing it in the bag. Peter tried not to stare but Wade was really wiggy about Peter seeing his skin. But Wade was apparently too distracted to remember that because he was caressing the material with his fingers, the off-white silk a stark contrast against his scarred, reddened hand.

“Yeah.” It wasn’t a lie. Technically.

“Feels...different. Organic. What is this, anyway? Is it a sweater?”

“Uh, it’s kind of a blanket, I guess? Or, like, a net? I don’t know, I only just learned to crochet, I’m not very good yet.”

“It’s so soft. You did _not_ cook this up in a lab, you nerd,” DP said and laughed. He paused and raised his head, his white mesh eyes pointed directly at Peter’s face. “You _didn’t_ whip it up in the lab, did you, Spidey?”

“Uh…” Peter ducked his head. “Not exactly. But I _did_ make it.”

“Then how did you...Spidey. You didn’t...No. You didn’t make it the way _spiders_ do. Did you?”

Peter shrugged.

Deadpool didn’t drop the blanket but he did jump up in the air, squealing like a teenage girl. “Oh my GOD, you made me a butt blanket! I can’t believe Spider-Man made a blanket out of his butt and gave it to ME!”

“Shut up, okay, I knew this was a bad idea, give it back--” He swung for it, but Wade danced out of the way, hugging the blanket to himself. Peter lunged a few times but it wasn’t a good idea to do this on a roof, and he knew he’d have to wrestle the blanket from Wade’s hands. “It’s clean, by the way. I washed it. It’s washing machine friendly.”

“Awesome. I love it!”

“You...do?”

“Yeah! Thanks, dude.”

You’re welcome, I guess.”

“Have you always been able to do this? And why am I only hearing about it now?”

“It happened recently, I’m as confused as you are. But I was looking at all this silky stuff and I realised I could make something out of it. Nobody else knows. You can’t tell anybody!”

“I’m...I’m the only one you told?” Deadpool said softly.

“Yeah. You don’t think I’m a freak? Do you? For being able to...you know?”

“Babe, you and me passed freak _miles_ away. We’re looking at freak in the rearview mirror. Freak is standing on the shoulder of the road, holding a sign that says ‘airport’, mournfully shaking his head as we roar away in our Chevrolet Corvette. That’s how far we’ve passed freak.”

“I guess you and I will never be normal, huh?”

“Yeah, but the way I see it, that’s a feature, not a bug. Bug, geddit? You got these guys like Iron-Dick. If you take his Transformers suit away from him, he’s nothing. You and me? We’re _special._ ” Deadpool threw the blanket around his shoulders like a cape, tying two corners around his neck to fasten it. He slipped his hand back in his glove (Peter was disappointed to see that sliver of skin be covered again) and thrust the empty bag at Peter. “I gotta go but you look after yourself, kiddo. Nighty night!”

* * *

The next time Peter saw him, Deadpool was fighting a street gang, trading blows and witty retorts (okay, Deadpool was the only one saying anything funny). He still managed to throw a greeting over his shoulder, despite the chaos around him.

“Hey, Spidey, you good? Care to join me in this dance?”

“Sure, why not?” Peter said and threw himself in the fray. They hadn’t rehearsed this, hadn’t sat doing reconnaissance over takeout, researching how they _would_ take out these crooks. But fighting with Deadpool was effortless, Peter used kicks, webs and punches to non-lethally beat the men into submission. He was pleased to see Deadpool was using safer methods to subdue these guys too. He knew Wade struggled with that.

When every crook was unconscious or otherwise unable to escape (webbed to the wall) Wade and Peter fled, hearing sirens tear through the air. The gunshots had attracted the police but now, it was time for the two vigilantes to leave.

* * *

“So,” Wade said as they sauntered down an alleyway, putting a reasonable amount of distance between themselves and the cop cars. “About your, uh, condition--”

“Who were those guys and why were we beating them?”

“Gangsters. Been tracking them for a couple of weeks,”

“Oh. I haven’t seen you for a while. Is that what you were doing?”

“Yeah, I’ve been busy. I...I thought of you --” Wade slapped his hands to his face. “Not like _that._ ”

“Like what?”

“Nothing. Forget I said it. I mean, I was hoping that you were okay and that you didn’t have any more problems.”

Problems? Oh. _Problems._

“I’m still getting the stuff. The stuff is still coming,” Peter said vaguely but he knew Wade would know what he meant. “But on the plus side, I’ve been making some new designs with it, so I’ve got that going for me, which is nice.”

“Yeah, that’s, that’s great. Listen, uh --” Wade made a strange, flouncy hand gesture in the air.. “Have you been making any more stuff?”

“I made a tea cosy. I’m not sure what purpose it fulfils but the old lady who does the crochet Youtube tutorials made one.”

“A tea cosy stops your teapot from cooling down too quickly. How old is she?”

“Like, fifty.”

“That’s not old!” Wade groaned. “Actually, I was wondering if you took commissions.”

“Wade, nobody knows about this. Except you. I can’t exactly run an _Etsy_ page.”

“Shit, sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking”

“It’s okay. What did you have in mind?”

“A scarf?”

“I don’t think that would be hard to make. You don’t have to pay me, I’ll do it for free.”

“Thanks, that would be amazing. How soon do you think it’ll be until you can have it ready?” Wade said.

Peter was surprised by his eagerness, but he took it in stride. “The next time I see you, I guess.”

* * *

“Do you like it?”

“It’s perfect,” Wade breathed, holding the scarf up, stretching it out in his hands. It shone silvery-grey in the moonlight. “When you crumple it up, it looks like a fallen star.” It did sort of have an ethereal vibe to it, Peter agreed. It had a strange consistency, it was gossamer-light but when you piled up the fabric in layers, it was heavy and strong. It was soft and stretchy and faintly glittered. He could see what Wade meant about it looking like starlight.

He’d wound it around his own neck immediately after he’d made it, and pictured Wade wearing it. He’d been generous with sizing because Wade had a thick neck. He was pleased with how soft the scarf was, he had rubbed it against his throat and it had felt beautifully light to the touch, like a butterfly walking on a leaf. Or soft, sleepy kiss from a lover. He was so pleased Wade liked it.

“It’s nice to be able to create something. To turn something that I considered to be a nuisance into something useful.”

“It’s so cool. It’s light but firm has just a bit of stretch to it but bounces back to normal! And you can throw it in the machine when you’re done!”

 _Done doing what?_ Peter thought. “Yeah, it’s a pity I can’t sell it but I can’t do anything that would compromise my identity.”

“Yeah, sucks. You’re sitting on a goldmine. _Shitting out_ a goldmine.”

He ignored that last remark. Wade was crude at times, Peter had known that since he’d first met him. “At least you like it. That makes me happy.”

“Aw, thanks, boo!”

* * *

The next time they met was several nights later. Wade had approached him in the street and had wasted no time in broaching the subject of another commission.

“Could you make me a set of PJs? I brought my current ones for measurements and stuff.”

“A scarf is one thing. You want some pyjamas? Wade, what is going on?”

Wade sighed through his mask. “Ugh, you’re gonna make me say it, aren’t you? I have skin problems. A lot of materials aggravate my skin, ‘specially artificial stuff. I don’t just wear leather because it makes my ass look amazing, I find natural fabrics more comfortable to wear. And you don’t get more comfortable than Spidey silk.”

“Oh, I...I didn’t know that. Sorry,” He knew Wade was a cancer survivor and had been subjected to torture that had woken up his mutant DNA. He knew Wade’s body had changed and had become something that Wade didn’t’ want people to see. He hadn’t known Wade’s skin _still_ hurt.

“It’s okay, it’s not your fault. A lot of fabrics fuck my skin up. That’s the main reason I strut around nude in my house. The second reason is that I’m hotter than Satan’s scrotum and I think the world needs to see that.”

_Okay, don’t think about Wade naked. Don’t think about him prowling about his house, opening drawers and refrigerator doors. Don’t think about his muscles and his legs. Think about grandmas. Really old grandmas._

“D-don’t you have a roommate?”

“She’s blind. And I’ve been forced to witness her wrinkly ass when I help her out of the tub. Anyway, moving over from old lady asses, it’s your ass I’m interested in. The silk, dude. It’s so comfortable, it doesn’t hurt my skin at all. It doesn't snag on my scars, it’s an all-natural material, it’s great.”

“I guess I could make you some sleepwear. And the measurements would be really helpful, thanks.”

“Thanks, Spidey. It means so much --”

“It’s fine, seriously. I’m happy to do it. I’ll have it ready in a week.” He accepted the bag from Wade, slinging it over his shoulder and prepared to swing to the next roof. Using his chemically-created webs, of course.

* * *

When Peter got home, he peeled off his suit and changed into soft pants and a long-sleeved tee. He got his needles ready, but he figured he’d have to find a suitable pattern to work out how to stitch the PJ’s. He’d never made something so complex before. Well, he’d made his spider suit, but that had involved sewing, not knitting. And that was a while ago, to be fair. He was actually feeling butterflies in his stomach, he realised. Although there was no legitimate consequence to him screwing this up, he found that he really didn’t want to disappoint Wade.

He decided to take a look at Wade’s clothes before he committed to a style and pattern. The material was soft cotton, and fell from the bag easily. The shirt was powder blue, long-sleeved, a typical pyjama style with a collar, brown buttons and long sleeves. He never pictured Wade as a long-sleeved guy, for some reason.

The pants had a white draw-string, frayed with age. The PJs felt very soft to the touch, as if they’d been worn and washed and worn and rewashed over a long period of time. They were starting to get that bobble effect on them, on the back, presumably from Wade lying in bed wearing them, but they were clean and presentable. He lifted the shirt to the lamp to examine the buttons, wondering if he should use them or buy more. As he brought the shirt closer to his face, he could detect the faint smell of laundry detergent, something pleasing but artificial, not a particular flower or essence, just a nice, clean smell. But underneath that, was a different scent. Something earthy and musky. Wade’s natural scent. He shivered, feeling as if Wade was in the room with him. Sometimes, Peter felt like their relationship was horribly unbalanced. Tilted in Peter’s favour. He knew Wade’s name, his hangouts, where he lived, the names of his friends. He knew where Wade was born, what he used to do for a living, he knew he was a cancer survivor. He knew that Wade had a skin condition. A skin condition so horrific that Wade refused to take his mask off in front of Peter. But Wade knew nothing about the man behind and the blue-and-white mask. He didn’t know Peter’s job, his favourite haunts. Didn’t know if he had any friends or family. 

That wasn’t fair to him. Wade had a big mouth but could be remarkably discreet when he needed to be. Perhaps he should give him a chance. Feed him some small piece of information, the next time they patrol together. Tell him what Peter does for work. Not the company name, just the general info. Wade would be so happy to hear it. He’d puff up his chest self-importantly like a wren about to burst into song. He might try to play it cool but he’d have a spring in his step for the rest of the night.

Yeah, he thought Wade had earned that. He glanced down and realised he’d been absent-mindedly rubbing his cheek along the seam of Wade’s pyjama pants. That was...he shouldn’t have been doing that. He was glad there was nobody to see that. But the inside of the pants were even softer than the shirt, smooth from constantly rubbing against Wade’s thighs.

“Okay, start knitting and stop thinking about Deadpool’s legs,” Peter told himself. He wished he could stick one of the needles into whatever part of his brain was generating a fantasy of Wade lying in bed, naked except for the pyjamas, rolling around in his sleep (something told him Wade would wriggle a lot in bed) the cotton rubbing against him, his chest, his legs, his back. Only a full-frontal lobotomy could erase that mental image.

* * *

Peter was able to find a pattern that worked and got right to it. The PJs Wade had given him were made of strong, thick cotton, with sturdy buttons, and he thought he could use them. It would save him from having to buy more. 

He lost hours, his head bowed over his work, nothing but the rhythmic click of needles and the shifting of silk. The fabric was already washed so he didn’t have to battle it, its stickiness had been washed right out of it. He spared a second to worry about the stickiness working its way through the washing machine and into the pipes, but that was a concern for another day. Right now, he had a gift to create.

He found he still had energy to make something else, something he thought Wade would appreciate. He used the PJ pants as reference, for the measurements, because Wade hadn’t requested this. Hadn’t expected it. He was solely doing this for Wade, to help him. Not because he wanted his silk to be as close to Wade’s skin as it could possibly get. Not at all.

* * *

“Hey, buddy!”

Peter smiled in recognition, not that Wade would be able to see it through the mask. But maybe he’d heard the golden-light amiability in his voice as he let out a: “Hey, ‘Pool!”

“You got the goods, bb? I mean, what you’ve got is always good, but I’m guessing that bag in your hands is for me.”

“Wow, that’s amazing. How did you know? Let me guess, your superpower is telepathy?”

“No, my power is I have a magic cock. Speaking of famous telepaths, Professor Xavier was able to walk before I fucked him.”

“Oh my gosh, Wade, you can’t say that!”

“Just did. What you got for me?”

Peter tossed the bag and Wade easily caught it. “I hope you like it.”

“If it came from you (which I know it did), I’ll love it, my li’l spiderling.”

“That was almost a compliment, thanks.”

“I’m always complimenting you! I never _stop_ complimenting you!”

“Telling me that you wanna use my ass as a bongo drum is not a compliment, Wade.”

“You and I are very different people, Spider-Man. If somebody said that to me, I’d cry tears of joy.”

“Wade, I want to use your ass as a bongo drum.”

Wade pretended to wipe tears from his meshed eyes. “I’m touched. Truly.”

“Gah, will you look in the bag, already? The anticipation is killing me.”

“Sorry, man,” Wade chuckled. He took a look in the bag. “Oh, _sick!_ ”

“You like them?”

“Hell yeah! That’s exactly what I was thinking of. Aw, you used the buttons from the old one! I approve. We only have one planet, Spidey. I don’t waste anything. Except my time. And people’s lives. But I don’t kill anymore. Or not as much.” He pulled the shirt out and held it to his chest. “It’s amazing.”

“You really like it?”

“It’s swag, babe. Thanks. Oh hey, what’s this?” He pulled the pants out and hung them over one bulging bicep, before digging further in the bag. “Is this -- you made me _boxer shorts?_ Spidey...”

His mask suddenly felt very stifling.“I thought, ‘cause you said your skin gets irritated, I don’t know, I just--”

“Alright, bring it in! Hug time!” Wade held out his arms, the pants hanging from one and the bag strap hanging from the other. It was a wide hug, one big enough to fit Peter and the clothes. He awkwardly stepped into the embrace and Wade threw his arms around him. Wade’s arms were tight and hard but warm as they locked around Peter’s waist. Peter surrendered to the hug, melted into it, leaning into Wade, enjoying this brief moment of happiness.

Wade was the one to let go first and Peter stepped back, to give him room.

“Boxers! You always know what I need, even if I don’t know it!” he said. “Aww, Spidey, ya treat me so fine.”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t get all weird on me. It’s just a pair of shorts.”

“But Weird is my middle name! Wade Weird Wilson.”

“Wade, you are so full of shit!”

“And you’re so full of webs! What a pair we make.”

Wade had had to go away. Nothing troubling, just some new gig. He told Peter about it the next time they went patrolling together, had told him he’d be away for about five days but after that, they should hang out, do some shit. Wade had phrased it in a way that been open-ended. Peter wasn’t sure if Wade was saying he and Peter should go patrolling when Wade was back in town or hang out as friends He hoped it was the latter but would be fine with the former. They didn’t hang out much outside of ‘work’ but Peter had been to Wade’s place a few times, played some video games, got some takeout.

Perhaps that was what Wade had meant. He wanted Peter to hang out with him at Wade’s place after Wade was back in town. They’d been getting on so well lately, this was a natural conclusion. He resolved that when Wade was back, they’d spend some time together.

* * *

Except, Wade never showed up. Peter went patrolling a few times but there was no familiar red-and-black shadow chasing after him. Wade had told him he’d get back on Friday. It was now Monday night and there was no sign of Deadpool. Peter hoped he was okay. He shouldn’t worry, if Wade knew what he was thinking right now, he’d be rolling his eyes behind his mask. But Peter should still go and check on Wade (and his roommate). Just to be safe.

He stalked around outside Wade’s apartment until he saw one the lights flicker on. He knew which room it was. Wade’s bedroom. He’d been in there once before, they’d sat and watched a movie and it was there that Wade told him about Weapon X.

He scaled up the fire escape, as quickly as he could.

* * *

Peter was all ready to pound on the window pane until Wade let him in, and then scold him for being dishonest, but then he realised something. Something that made him blush. Wade was lying on his bed in just a pair of boxer shorts. The shimmering grey silk boxers Peter had crafted for him. He knew he should look away. He should do more than that. He should leave. But this was the first time he’d properly seen Wade’s skin. All of it, not just the sliver of jaw when he rolled up his mask to eat. Wade was exposed, on display. And Peter wanted to see more.

Hi skin was unlike anything Peter had seen before. It had so much _texture._ It reminded him of a geographical heat map. All of it was pink but varying shades, lighter in some places, darker in others. The skin was a light rose around Wade’s face, his chiselled jaw but darker, more flushed when you got a bit lower. The skin on his stomach was a dark pink, he would have liked to see if that flush continued, but the silvery hem of the boxers blocked him from seeing more. He’d never seen Wade look so vulnerable, so exposed. He was being treated to a special sight. It was like witnessing some obscure natural phenomenon, something that only occurs every hundred years or so.

He pressed himself against the glass, staring open-mouthed at the creature before him. He’d known Wade was tall and bulky, he always occupied a lot of space, which could be annoying when they were patrolling and trying to hide. He’d never seen the extent of Wade’s muscles before.

The rippling biceps, his rounded shoulders, the straining muscles in his thighs as he parted his legs --

Oh.

Peter _really_ shouldn’t be here. And yet he couldn’t look away.

Wade lay there, his legs apart, his hand resting on his hip. His eyes were closed and Peter wondered if he was drifting off to sleep, but then his hand came down to cup the bulge in his pants. Seeing Wade’s hand cup himself through the boxers, pressing Peter’s own silk to Wade’s skin. It made him feel...something. He wasn’t sure what.

It looked _right,_ the pinky-red of his skin on the pale material. His hand on Peter’s creation, Deadpool and Spider-Man, together as always. Was Wade going to wriggle out of those boxers? Work them down those absurdly-big thighs and let them bunch around his ankles as he spread his thighs even further? Wade would reference his cock _a lot,_ while talking to Peter but Peter had never actually seen it. Was he about to see it now?

Without warning, Wade sat bolt upright in bed. His wide brown eyes sought out Peter’s face. **Spidey?** Wade said, his voice silent through the window but his lips twisting to form the words.

* * *

Peter reared back, stumbling on the fire escape. He wanted to bolt, he had to get out. But Wade could move quickly when he wanted to, and it seemed like one second Wade was lying on his bed, the next he was opening his window and dragging Peter through it.

“Jesus, you’re lucky I can’t die. You almost gave me a heart attack,” Wade sighed as he helped Peter climb over the sill and into the room. At least he didn’t sound mad.

“Wade, I’m, I’m so sorry, I came over because I wanted to know if you were okay and I didn’t realise and then I saw what you were doing, but it was too late, I couldn’t -- wait. What were you doing?’

“Enjoying the buffet that is Wade Wilson,” Wade said, gesturing at himself. Peter didn’t follow the movement with his eyes, not wanting to get caught staring at Wade’s abs.

“While wearing the boxer shorts I made you?”

“They feel nice, okay? Like an angel is firmly yet gently cupping little Wade and the twins.”

“Er, I didn’t create them for you with that in mind.”

“Then why were you watching me?” Wade said. He crossed his arms, waiting for Peter’s answer.

At this moment, Peter saw two pathways. The first was one where he denied any interest in ‘the buffet that is Wade Wilson’ and made his excuses and left. That would be acceptable and safe. Wade would probably believe it and they could move on and resume their friendship. The second pathway was one where Peter was honest. He confessed what he was really feeling and let Wade react to that. Peter weighed up both choices but wasn’t sure of what he was going to say until the words left his mouth.

“I watched you because I liked it. I liked seeing you touching my silk.”

Wade didn’t speak for about half a minute, and Peter could see their friendship thrashing and flailing as it fell down the drain. Has he really been so wrong? All the sex jokes Wade had reeled off, or the flirting and flattery -- had it really been an act? Or had Wade been interested but now was repulsed by Peter’s outburst. Maybe Wade _had_ been attracted to Peter, but had lost interest after silk started falling out of him.

“Can I see it? The silk?” Wade said finally. Peter frowned in his mask, his brain struggling to catch up.

“You can see it, it’s there, you’re wearing it.”

“I mean…” Wade bowed his head, staring down at Peter’s boots. If it had been anybody else, Peter would have recognised it as a sign of shyness. “I mean I wanna see it...straight from the source.”

 _The source? He doesn’t mean…?_ “Can...can you help me out of my suit, Wade?”

* * *

It was with a giddy enthusiasm that the two vigilantes undressed. Wade was reluctant to remove his boxer shorts (“They’re so soft!”) but was convinced by Peter’s ultimatum: Peter wouldn’t undress unless Wade did.

Wade knelt before him, wrestling with one of Peter’s boots. Peter was sitting on the end of Wade’s bed, trying not to think about what was going to happen next.

Wade had managed to heave one boot off. Peter was glad he’d reworked his suit a couple of years ago, making everything into separates. It made bathroom breaks a lot easier, for one thing.

“Sweetheart, you never have to feel embarrassed around me. Okay, this spiderweb thing is a little freaky, but you’re my little freaky spider-baby and I love you, spinnerets and all.” Wade snapped his mouth shut and Peter decided not to comment on the last thing he’d said. They would have to talk about this at some point, but not right now. Peter already felt vulnerable enough for one night, and he reckoned that Wade felt that way, too.

Peter let Wade undress him, the merc moving so gently and carefully as if Peter was something delicate and special. He should have felt awkward and unsafe, nearly naked in front of Wade but he didn’t. It actually felt liberating. He was here, in a dear friend’s bedroom, they were skin-to-skin, only Peter’s mask remained. There were no lies or danger, no villains to fight or people to rescue. He was free to take as long as he liked in enjoying Wade’s conversation and company. And the way Wade looked at him as Peter finally removed his mask and Peter sat before him. It made him feel like he wasn’t a mutant at all. The adoration that shone in Wade’s eyes made Peter feel powerful. And beautiful.

“Spidey, I mean, Peter.” They’d known each other’s names for months, but Peter had always insisted on Wade addressing him as Spider-Man when they were in public. He supposed that old habits die hard. Peter was glad he had finally heard Wade say his name. It sounded pretty on Wade’s lips. “You look good. Your face, it’s. Good.”

Peter perched on the end of the bed and glanced down at Wade. “Should we get to it? It might be in pretty deep. You might need to go kind of far.”

Wade let out a soft exhale. “That’s fine. I don’t mind. Back in a moment,”

* * *

Wade was back at the foot of the bed, kneeling in front of Peter almost immediately. He seemed more confident now, gently spreading Peter’s thighs with his fingers and directing him to lie back. He slipped a pillow under Peter’s lower back and angled his legs. Peter didn’t need to be reminded that Wade had had a lot of lovers over the course of his life, but it didn’t bother him. Wade was here with him now. He’d seen the ugliest side of Peter and hadn’t just accepted it, he’d embraced it. You don’t get more intimate than that.

Wade’s fingers were hot and firm, pressing down between Peter’s legs, trailing a path up one thigh and up, brushing his cock as if it was nothing more than an afterthought and back, to where Peter had never been touched before. His fingers left moisture wherever they passed, Wade must have coated them in some kind of oil. He felt like Wade was leaving his fingerprints on him.

“Is this okay?” Wade murmured and Peter didn’t respond, didn’t know if he could form coherent words because he wanted so much and this was okay, it was so okay but the anticipation was worse than anything and could Wade please hurry up? But he didn’t need to rely on words to convey that message, so instead, he brought his knees up, exposing himself, hiding nothing.

Wade’s fingers were drawing closer to where they needed to be, and Peter silently urged them on, as he lay there and focused on breathing normally. Breathe in, breathe out. Breath in. Breathe out. Eventually, one finger probed lightly at his hole and Peter felt the tension ease in his chest. Wade wasn't trying to open him up yet, he was merely smearing oil around the hole, testing the tightness with his finger, and Peter huffed out an impatient breath. Please, Wade. I can take it. Maybe Wade heard him, perhaps he’d said that aloud because Wade eased his finger inside, first just the tip and then the whole of it once it was welcomed in. Peter’s body adjusted to it, feeling as if it had always been there. Or as if it had always been destined to be there. Wade gave a few experimental thrusts, and Peter sighed. This was fine. It didn’t hurt, it wasn’t weird, it was fine.

“Okay, should I go for it?” Wade murmured and Peter nodded an impatient _yes._

The oil had made it easy for Wade to slip another finger inside. He curled them, scissored them and Peter tried to lie still, feeling strangely unbalanced the more girth was added. He had been trying to ignore his dick for a while now, but it lay half-hard on his stomach. Wade hadn’t commented on it and due to the position they were in, Peter couldn’t see if Wade was affected.

“I can definitely feel something,” Wade told him, and Peter felt a mad desire to laugh at his serious voice. “Let me just…”

He could feel him do it. Could _feel_ Wade hook his fingers, catch them around something inside him and _tug._ Peter kicked out a leg in shock as a jolt of pleasure bolted through him. It hadn’t felt like this when he’d done it to himself. This felt _electric,_ something sizzling in his core, waves of pure, white-hot energy originating from his core, being dragged out by Wade’s fingers. He wriggled, one hip pinned down by Wade’s free hand and Wade made a rough sound of determination and pulled again. Peter had a bizarre vision of Wade grimly unplugging a drain and stifled another helpless giggle.

The action of pulling and gripping the web fibres meant Wade’s fingers were thrusting in and out of Peter. Every drag of his rough knuckles on Peter’s skin made his breath catch in his throat. Wade was getting a stronger purchase on the gossamer threads and as he eased his fingers out of Peter’s hole, webs came with it. Peter didn’t look down but he could feel them, sticky, webs clinging to his hole, clinging to Wade’s fingers, one point of connection, gluing them together.

“You’re amazing,” Wade whispered and Peter shivered, as if the words had a physical form and were crawling over his skin on spindly legs. Wade was so close, he could feel the heat of his breath.

“Take some more, “Peter heard himself saying. “Take it all…”

Wade shot him a thrilled grin and seized the thread, giving it a steady yank. The silk surged out of Peter, spilling over his thighs, sticking to them, mingling with his sweat and the lube, and Peter arched his back, feeling wide and stretched open. He groped around between his legs and felt for the silk, felt it bunching up around his ass, felt where it was protruding from his hole, felt the rumpled, satiny folds of fabric splitting him open. He was hot, his hip was burning under Wade’s hand, his thighs were shivering and slick with sweat, the webs were steaming hot from where they’d left his body. Everywhere felt alive and flushed with heat. Everywhere except…

His free hand found Wade’s face, his palm curved around that perfect, movie star jaw and he guided Wade’s face to Peter’s cock. He just needed his soft, warm breath on his skin. Wade would understand. Wade eagerly pressed his lips to Peter’s cock, his tongue tentatively flicking a path up the side of the shaft. Wade grew with confidence as Peter let him touch more and more of his body. He licked a stripe along Peter’s cock, occasionally stopping to place a sloppy, wet kiss on Peter’s hip. His fingers were still pulling at the thread, coaxing more of it out of Peter’s body. He had a rhythm, lick, pull, lick, pull. Sometimes, the ropes of webbing would brush Peter’s prostate and he’d cry out, buck up, into Wade’s mouth. When had Wade taken Peter into his mouth? Peter wondered. He raised his head a fraction and saw Wade’s lips stretched around Peter’s cock, his eyes closed in bliss, sucking as if he needed it, as if he’d die if he didn’t do it. 

Peter gasped, thrusting hard in Wade’s mouth, he knew he could take it, Wade could probably deepthroat him for hours and never get tired and Wade grunted a cadence of encouragement, eyes still screwed shut, still playing with the thread spooling out of Peter’s ass. Peter felt full of sensation, stuffed with webbing, too full and jittery and building emotion, he wanted to tell him but then Wade gave a hard tug at the webbing and Peter was falling or flying, but everything was coming out of him, hot and wet from his cock and sticky and thick from his ass and t was cleansing, like _coming_ home or _finding_ home, _Wade_ was home and Peter’s heart had never raced home so fast.

* * *

He sank back on the mattress, feeling his limp, wet cock slip out of Wade’s lips. He felt good, all things considered. The popcorn pattern ceiling above his head couldn’t hold his interest for long, so he unsteadily arranged his body into a sitting position. Wade was no longer kneeling, the man was now sitting on the floor by the foot of the bed, gathering up folds of silk. The glittering mass filled his arms. 

“That was all inside of me?” Peter said, startled.

Wade looked up at him and Peter was stunned by the love he saw in his dark eyes. “Yeah. You’re a medical marvel, baby.”

Oh shit, he hadn’t even considered Wade’s needs. “Do you want me to, um, return the favour?”

Wade pulled a face. “I already...had my, uh, photo finish. I had you in my mouth and little Wade couldn’t contain his excitement anymore.”

Peter fell back on the mattress, and after a few seconds of hesitation, Wade joined him. They lay there, shoulder-to-shoulder, their feet dangling over the edge.

“You know,” Peter said. “Since this whole web thing started, I haven’t felt like myself. I haven’t even known who I was or what I was turning into. But when I’m around you, I know who I am. And I know who you are. And I like who you are.”

Wade absorbed that, and they lay there for a couple of minutes. Peter felt Wade tense up, just a tightening of his shoulders next to Peter and he knew the man was about to speak. “I like who you are, too.”

Peter turned his head to see Wade and Wade mirrored his gesture. There was something he had to tell Wade. Maybe Wade already knew it, but it had to be said aloud. “I love you, Wade.”

And Wade’s smile was blinding.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you thought of it. :) I'm going to come back and proofread this tomorrow night because right now it's 02:10 in the morning and I'm very sleepy!


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